Sept, i, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
329 
THE “WATER” FROM AUSTRALIA. 
camp-fire. In the background a row of tents, 
pitched under a grove of trees, stand out white 
in the brilliant moonlight. The oldest member 
of the party is holding forth in words that have 
lost none of their color by a year’s keeping. 
The new hands sit open-mouthed, taking in the 
tales being told of hair-breadth escapes and the 
savage nature of the mighty boar. And so the 
night wears on apace and it is time to turn in; 
after a walk round the horses -to see that all is 
secure, one by one the lights in the tents go out. 
A few natives remain squatting round the dying 
embers, gibbering Hindoostani until they draw 
upon themselves the angry words of some sleep¬ 
less Sahib from within, when they, too, turn, 
in and all is quiet, save for the occasional 
neighing of an Arab pony, or the screeching of 
a night owl. with the half hourly coughing fit 
of the chokidar—the native watchman. 
It seems but a few hours since one turned in, 
and now the bearer has lighted a candle and is 
busy arranging the clothes at the foot of the 
bed. There is a general stir in camp. Syces 
are jabbering by the dozen, Khitmagars are 
busy over crackling fires. No time to lose, for 
the first streaks of dawn are appearing on the 
horizon. A rapid toilet, and chota hazri (little 
breakfast), consisting of a cup of tea and an egg, 
and we are in the saddle and moving out of 
camp. 
Lutchman, the old Shikari of thirty seasons, is 
standing on the top of an elephant, trying to get 
the coolies into line in the jungle to be ready 
for the Sahibs when they come. One or two of 
the late risers gallop up at the last moment, and 
the line moves off. We muster twelve spears, 
all told, and from three groups of four in front 
of a line of beaters about 200 yards long. For 
half an hour we ride silently along and are just 
beginning to wonder whether there is a pig in 
the district, when suddenly resounds a series of 
grunts and snorts and a sounder of pig dart 
off into the jungle. The nearest group dash 
after them, only to find that it is a little family 
party, consisting of an old sow and her young. 
The leading horseman raises his spear horizont¬ 
ally over his head as a signal, and the riders 
pull up and wait for the line to come up to them. 
Almost at the same moment a fine old boar 
breaks to the right front, and four horsemen are 
going all they know how to keep him in sight. 
For nearly a mile he takes them at racing pace 
as straight as a die. One of the riders is close 
on him; his spear is lowered as he overhauls 
him foot by foot, but a sudden jink at right 
angles through a thick patch of jungle allows 
the second horseman to cut in and do the riding 
for another half mile. The other two riders 
have come to grief and are busy picking them¬ 
selves up. 
The pursuit continues—which will crack first 
—the boar or the horse? The pace has been 
terrific. At last the sjiear is lowered, and just 
as the rider would run it in behind the shoulder, 
the boar gives a jink to his left, with the result 
THOROUGHBRED AUSTRALIAN GELDING “WATERLINE.” 
THE INDIAN COUNTRY-BRED. 
that lie receives a prog in the thick part of the 
hindquarters. Infuriated at the pain, he wheels 
about and charges. Then begins a pretty sight 
as the quarry turns to give fight. With a deep 
grunt, he rushes at the steed. The old Arab 
gives a jump to one side to avoid the upward 
thrust of the gleaming tusk, narrowly escaping 
a ripped side. At the moment when the boar 
has prepared for another onslaught, the second 
horseman comes up, and with a clever point, 
runs his spear well in behind the shoulder and 
the mighty boar keels over with a few fitful 
struggles. 
The line which has been slowly following on 
comes up; the heated riders repair to the ele¬ 
phant, which is loaded with iced soda water; 
four coolies are told off to carry the boar home 
to camp, while the elephants are watered in the 
river, and the beat then continues. And so the 
morning wears on, nearly all the groups having 
a dart in turn, until about 11 o’clock, when the 
sun becomes too powerful, it is time to call a 
halt for breakfast. 
This we find laid out for us, and hot and 
thirsty, we pour down cup after cup of tea. 
About 12 o’clock we lie down on our charpoys 
to pass the heat of the day under the shade of 
the trees; but it requires a particularly good 
novel to keep one awake. A heavy meal on 
top of a hard morning will soon tell its tale, and 
but for the worry of a rapidly shifting sun, one 
spends three or four hours in undisturbed rest, 
until the wielder of the punkah fan eagerly in¬ 
forms you that the shikaris are on the warpath. 
You wake up, feeling rather less rested than 
when you lay down; but there is no time for 
meditation, as it is half past three and the 
evenings are short. After a hasty cup of tea, the 
line is once again on the move,'and for half an 
hour we toil on in the still, broiling sun which, 
luckily for us, now gradually begins to lose its 
power. Every now and again a trio will dart 
off in hot pursuit. Now an old boar takes us 
over a grand line of country, after about half 
a mile he thinks to lose us by driving straight 
into a grass fire. The horses, maddened by the 
crackling flames, charge headlong, moving in 
leaps and bounds until we have cleared right 
through it. and are still on the heels of the boar, 
when suddenly we are all three on our heads, for 
unknowingly we have struck the “hundred 
acres,” a well known and always to be avoided 
spot in the Meerut Khadir. For nearly a square 
mile the country is unrideable. being honey¬ 
combed with small holes. With difficulty we ex¬ 
tricate our steeds and regain solid ground again, 
but devil a sign of the pig, who has given us 
the slip. After some delay in drawing round, 
lest he may be laying up, there is nothing for 
it but to return to the line. Toward dusk we 
reach our new camp, and find everything ready 
in true Indian style and the best of dinners wait¬ 
ing to be eaten. How soundly we sleep that 
night! Not even the howling of the jackals, al¬ 
most at the tent door, disturb our rest. 
Off again at dawn, this time to draw a big 
cover. Some two hundred natives have been 
chartered from a neighboring village to beat, 
and as we take up our positions in pairs at the 
likely exits round the edge of the wood, we hear 
the tomtoms commence their rattle in a distant 
corner: the shouts of the natives grow louder, 
proclaiming the approach of the drive; you can 
feel your horse’s heart going thump! thump! 
against your boot as lie stands with ears pricked, 
straining every muscle in his body. Suddenly 
there is a rustling in the bushes and a young 
buck breaks cover, while a few minutes later an 
old boar steals noiselessly out upon a dry nullah. 
In a second We are after him in full pursuit. He 
is heading straight for the big canal not half 
a mile distant; a desperate effort to catch him 
before it is reached, but he beats us on the 
post, and is half-way across before we reach the 
